


Simple, Straight-Up, Disco-House Sugar,

by Jocondite (jocondite)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-22
Updated: 2006-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:20:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jocondite/pseuds/Jocondite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stealth? Why are we undercover at a gay bar?” Orlando hisses, and it’s a slight improvement. Elijah estimates that only the men in a half-metre radius probably overheard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simple, Straight-Up, Disco-House Sugar,

i.

The music pulses in with the dull thump of a heartbeat. Elijah cups a hand to his ear. “Say what?”

Orli’s eyes are comically wide as he scans the small club; Elijah winces internally as he watches Orli take in the couple intertwined in the corner, the person in the slinky silver dress being chatted up over by the bar, the dancing, grinding couples.

‘This is a gay club!” Orli yelps. “You asked me to a _gay bar?”_ His scandalized London accent rises above the music, drawl gone.

Shit. That was kinda loud. “Shush!” Elijah whispers urgently. “They’ll hear you. We’re going for _stealth_ here, Orlando.”

“Stealth? Why are we _undercover at a gay bar?”_ Orlando hisses, and it’s a slight improvement. Elijah estimates that only the men in a half-metre radius probably overheard.

He pulls Orlando over to the corner of the room, and scans the perimeter for eavesdroppers. “Look, I have my reasons, okay? I keep hearing about how good the music is here -”

Orlando’s frowning, and Elijah hurries to finish his explanation. “No, look, they have this really great DJ. He plays at Bodega every weeknight and at Pound every Saturday-”

“Pound?” Orlando raises his eyebrows. “Is that what this place is called? You dragged me in here too fast to take any notice of -”

“Yeah, yeah,” Elijah interrupts. “It’s the only gay bar in Wellington. That doesn’t matter. The _point_ is, I heard the DJ play at Bodega, and he has this amazing vinyl collection. I’d sell my left kidney - fuck, I’d sell Dom and Billy into sexual slavery if it meant I could get my hands on it. And none of it is for sale and hardly anything’s up for trading, but I think I impressed him with my musical knowledge and he said that if I met him here after his show he’d consider it.” Elijah took a breath.

Orlando still looked quizzical, but the frown was mostly smoothed away. “Okay. I understand why you’re here, although Elijah, man, if that DJ’s interested in trading vinyl with you, then -” He shook his head. “Why am _I_ here?”

“Moral support,” Elijah replies promptly. “Backup. I wasn’t coming here all by _myself._ And I thought that you’d, y’know, blend in.”

“You asked me along because you thought I’d fit in?” Orlando asks, and Elijah can’t tell whether his thoughtful tone means that he’s plotting his violent death, or worse, his public humiliation, or whether he just finds that fact really, really interesting.

Most of the time, Orli’s easy to read; he telegraphs his every flicker of mood with quirked brows, twisting, grinning mouth, the angles of his body. He has a real gift at conveying bliss or intense vexation with the set of his shoulders.

But every now and then, he’s utterly oblique. Elijah stares at back at him.

“Well – kinda, yeah. I mean, Astin would’ve stood out like a sore thumb – I love the guy, you know I do, but he would’ve completely blown it. And he’d probably have pressed, like, the fucking _trilogy’s_ thickness of pamphlet stacks on me, all with names like _‘So You’re Having Confusing Feelings: What To Do About Them’_ and _‘Coming Out To Your Nearest And Dearest ’_ -”

“Why me? Why not Dom?” Orli presses, and Elijah wishes he’d just shut up, already. Dom would mock him for, well, _ever_ , and Orli’s just – well, he’s safer.

Elijah doesn’t say that. Instead he smirks at Orli. “Orlando, I have to tell you it was pretty close. Dom had the nail polish and the occasional eyeliner experiments, true, but close consideration of your wardrobe gave you the edge.”

He has no trouble reading the expression on Orli’s face now; it’s pure indignation, no question. Orli’s voice rises again.

 _“What?_ You think – there’s absolutely nothing wrong with my bloody clothes, you – wait, you think I’m _camper_ than _Dom?”_

Elijah sends Orlando what he hopes comes across as a wide-eyed look of innocence. It must work, somehow – although Elijah would’ve sworn that any of the guys, now that they’ve spent a couple of months filming, know him well enough not to fall for that - because after a few minutes, Orlando just sighs and rolls his eyes, dismissing it.

“Dom could out-camp an entire squadron of Boy Scouts, Lij, but whatever. I hope you tucked your wallet somewhere into those tight jeans, because you’re standing me drinks.”

  
ii.

Orlando orders a bourbon for himself and a Battering Ram for Elijah. Elijah waits until Orli’s finished off his first drink and turned to face the crowd, leaning back against the bar, before ordering him a Bent Ass in revenge.

They stand there, sipping at their drinks, and Elijah thinks that they’re playing it cool very successfully. Orli’s still slightly flushed from the hysterical laughing fit he had after Elijah shot him a limpidly innocent look and handed him his violently purple cocktail, and Elijah’s worried that his jeans might actually be cutting off the circulation in his upper thighs, but still. Their cover is intact.

“Hey, can I buy you a drink?”

Possibly too intact.

The guy who’s sidled up to Elijah looks to be in his mid-twenties, with dark hair like Orli’s but considerably broader shoulders. Elijah supposes he’s good-looking, if you’re into that kind of thing. Which, appearances to the contrary, he isn’t.

“Uh. No, I’m fine, actually, thanks -” Elijah flails and looks to Orli for help.

Orli raises his hands in an _“All yours, man”_ gesture, smirking faintly. Elijah fumes; if this is his revenge for being chosen over Dom, it isn’t _funny._

It takes Elijah a few minutes to persuade his would-be drink-purchaser that he’s not interested, _really_. Orlando’s fending off offers of his own; Elijah notices jealously that Orlando doesn’t seem to have any trouble persuading them to lay off, and that he somehow manages to send them off in good humour, through some strange alchemy of good-natured grin and ridiculously long eyelashes.

“Fuck,” Elijah curses under his breath. “Why won’t they take the hint?”

“Lij, if you thought you could just fade into the wallpaper here, you were dreaming. Or really, really disingenous.” Orli looks pleased that he got that last word out without tripping over his tongue, but his eyes seem weirdly sincere.

  
iii.

Fifteen minutes and twelve more guys and various invitations to dance, offers of drinks, and offers to get better acquainted in the backroom later, Elijah is feeling quite definitely out of his depths (time spent around film sets notwithstanding), and he’s not sure if quality vintage vinyl is really worth it.

This is a deeply heretical thought, but he can’t suppress it. He bolts down another glass of something sweet and girly, and tries to think.

Orli glances at him across the veritable sea of glasses they’ve drained and left empty in their wake. “Lij,” he says, voice low ( _stealth mode,_ Elijah thinks), “Are you dealing with this okay?”

“Fine,” Elijah glares. “I now know that I’m exactly the type of twink the well-accessorised _homo **homo** sapiens_ wants on his knees in a bathroom stall, and I’m dealing with that fact just fine.”

Orli’s frowning again; he does that a lot, a faint crease appearing between his brows. Dom and Billy claim that it’s indicative of the great effort needed to get Orlando’s mental gears moving, but Orli isn’t dense.

“What did you think about the latest rewrites?” Orlando asks finally.

Elijah blinks at him for a few moments, but despite the odd conversational segue it’s still Orli sitting there, the blinking brilliant light gleaming against the bare sides of his scalp, tracing his cheekbones. His crest of curls is reddish where the light hits it, and his eyes are flat and dark; his shirt is hideous and painted on, and while it confirms Elijah’s decision to ask Orli along for backup, he still somehow manages to wear it well. If Elijah squints, he can almost make out the shape of Orli’s nipples through the thin cheap fabric, and it isn’t _that_ cold in here, and Orlando wouldn’t win a wet t-shirt competition, and _why is Elijah still looking?_

“Uh,” Elijah replies, in the momentary pause before his brain kicks up again. “I think they’re good. Yeah. I mean, I seem to have to fall over another couple of times, and at this rate I’m going to spend most of the movies teary-eyed and getting rescued by big manly men or at least manlier hobbits, but, y’know, good. Sean’s actually very pleased with them.”

“Huh,” Orlando says, thinking. “Yeah, I can see why he would be-”

“Hey,” a guy interrupts, and Elijah recognises him as one of the people he’s already refused. He thinks that this one wanted to dance. “Look, this hot-and-cold act you’ve got going is fun and everything, but why don’t you come and have a dance? Or, better, why don’t we skip to the backroom? I’d like to see more of that pretty white skin.”

Okay, it didn’t work the first time, but Elijah cravenly shoots Orlando a begging look. Orli rolls his eyes, but he slides along the bar until he’s plastered against Elijah’s side, and slides his hand into the back pocket of Elijah’s jeans. He stares directly at the guy, then around the club; _huh,_ Elijah thinks, _that was a definite ’back off’ look._ Better still, the guy actually does.

Elijah’s startled, and kinda - no, that’s just the alcohol.

“Let’s dance,” Orli whispers in his ear. “You’ll be less of a target that way. I learnt that in archery.”

“…What?” Elijah can’t fathom an archery lesson that would contain helpful hints about how to brush off ardent gay suitors. _“What?”_

“Moving targets are harder to hit - hit _on_ , ” Orli smirks, and Elijah punches him in the shoulder, because god, that’s bad, but he can’t help snickering.

  
iv.

The DJ’s good. Very very good. Elijah knew that already, but it bears repeating. The lights keep changing colour _bluepurplepinkredorange_ and they’re very very shiny.

Elijah is starting to suspect that those disingenuously sweet and fruity drinks were in fact very very alcoholic.

Orli has one hand on Elijah’s hip, thumb resting on the bare strip of skin where Elijah’s shirt rides up. Not just resting; he keeps brushing it up across the curve of bone, stroking over the smooth skin. Elijah doesn’t know if he’s aware that he’s doing it; maybe it’s just Orli’s bizarre way of keeping time, marking the beat. Elijah doesn’t mind; it feels kinda nice, and he arches forward a little closer.

It’s fun, dancing with Orli; Elijah grins at him and he beams back, broad and bright and a little unfocused. They’ve got a rhythm going, _close and back and halfturnhipbrush close and back,_ and the other dancers have stepped back a little to give them space to move.

Orli breaks it, grabbing Elijah when he moves forward and dipping him back in an overdramatic, cheesy gesture; they’re both laughing, even though Elijah swears under his breath that he’ll get Orlando back for making him the girl. He hasn’t been dancing like this with a _friend_ , not someone he’s trying to chat up, for far too long; Elijah’s forgotten just what pure fun it is.

“You’re good at this,” he mutters into Orlando’s ear as they work their way into a new rhythm with the change of song, closer together than before.

“Yeah, well,” Orli has both hands on Elijah’s hips now, and he shakes them roughly, causing Elijah to giggle into his shoulder. “I’ve done this before, you know.”

Elijah swallows.

  
v.

A few songs later, Elijah is seriously fighting off natural bodily reaction. It’s not like it’s his _fault_ ; he’s nineteen, the music is really really good, and thumping through his veins like a narcotic, he’s had too much - _way, way too much_ \- to drink (and even that isn’t his fault; those fucking girly cocktails shouldn’t pack that much of a punch, but they’re sneaky fuckers, and they do).

And he’s dancing with Orli, who’s gone all boneless and wriggly as an eel, and really, Elijah defies anyone in his position _not_ to get a little, uh, hard. He doesn’t know if Orli would see it that way, apparent experience notwithstanding, so he’s careful to angle his pelvis away every time Orlando gets close.

Orli whispering in his ear, that especially doesn’t help. His breath is warm and wet against the curve of Elijah’s neck, and it makes him shiver and really, really doesn’t help with his little (actually, not so little, and he’ll take down anyone who implies as much), ahem, problem.

“Look at that guy over there,” Orli breathes, “see the look on his face? He’s staring like he’s never seen anything like us, dancing together.”

“Old pervert,” Elijah says, and has to twist his lower body away when Orlando sways into him.

“Nah,” Orli corrects him. “Don’t blame him. He’s not the only one looking, see? Thing is, Lij, I have no idea how you thought you could come here - we could come here - together - and not attract attention. All this talk of stealth-”

“Fine,” he grumbles. “I get it. The stupid lying girly drinks outstealth me.”

“The drinks?” Orlando stares at him like he’s gone crazy. Maybe he has, because Orli’s cocked his head, the better to peer at him, and Elijah is overcome by a sudden irrational urge to lick his neck.

They’re still dancing, Orlando’s hand resting on Elijah’s hip again, thumb stroking, stroking. Elijah grits his teeth and tries to step back a bit, to keep his (large) problem to himself.

“Hey,” Orli says, a little startled. “If you think alcohol makes a better undercover agent than you, I’m not going to say it doesn’t. Come here-”

And, _oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck_ , he reaches for Elijah’s other hip and pulls him flush against him.

The look on Orlando’s face when he realises, Elijah thinks, is almost comical; his eyes widen and he blinks owlishly, eyebrows nearly at where his hairline would be, if it wasn‘t shaved into the mohawk. Elijah is so caught up in watching the inevitable disaster of Orlando’s reaction unfold that it takes him a few moments to realise that no, that’s not a gun pressed against his stomach.

“Oh,” Orli breathes, and yeah, the way he sounds, the way his breath falls on Elijah’s neck _is_ directly wired into his cock. “That’s interesting.”

“Grrnkjk,” Elijah manages. It takes all his willpower not to start humping against Orlando’s leg like a demented puppy. “Orli - fuck -”

“Yeah?” Orli says, and he’s _grinning_ , the fucker.

Elijah glares at him even as his hips jerk against him entirely of their own accord, and Orlando’s expression alters, and he leans down, and oh fuck, that’s his mouth.

For a second, it’s incredibly weird; Orlando’s chin rasps a little against his, and he’s tall enough that Elijah has to crane his neck upwards a little, and his brain shrieks _wrong wrong wrong_. But his lips are as soft as a girl’s, and, huh, he really can use his tongue, can’t he, and then Elijah stops analysing it and just concentrates on kissing Orli breathless.

Orli grinds against him, which Elijah takes as permission to grind back, and their cocks are trapped between their bodies and the denim of their jeans, and then they grind _against each other_ , and that’s the most fucking awesome feeling _ever_.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Elijah whimpers, then realises that he’s been chanting it like a mantra against the join of Orlando’s neck and shoulder.

Orlando’s mouth is hot and wet against the corner of his jaw, and he starts sucking and licking his way down Elijah’s throat. Elijah tries, he really does, but he’s nineteen and there’s unbelievable friction against his dick, and then Orlando starts using his teeth, just a little; Elijah gives the battle up as lost and comes exquisitely hard in his jeans.

He slumps against Orli, and for about forty seconds while he draws shuddering breaths and tries to get his knees to function again, it’s all right, but then he’s abruptly conscious of having _come in his pants_ and worse, having _come in the middle of the dance floor with a highly interested audience looking on._

“Hey,” Orli says quietly, correctly interpreting Elijah’s quickened breathing as hysteria, “Hey, it’s okay. The vast majority of them didn’t even notice, okay? And if anyone did, Lij, I’d bet anything that they see much, much worse every night in here, yeah?”

“Okay,” Elijah manages, “cool. Okay.” He pulls away a bit. Orli looks serious and concerned, but his high cheekbones are stained with colour under the tan, and his lips are swollen, and he's hard against Elijah's hip. Elijah came like the proverbial freight train barely a minute ago, but fuck, looking at Orli makes him want to be ready to come again.

“So,” Orli says, “look. Come back to my house and get cleaned up, okay?”

“But -” Elijah shoots a pining glance over to where the DJ - huh, he never quite got his name - is spinning discs, because the thought of giving up the opportunity to get his hands on some of that collection is almost physically painful.

“Elijah,” Orli says patiently, “d’you really think he asked you to meet him at a gay bar just so he could show you his etchings - sorry, I mean _vintage music collection_ \- honestly?”

“Well,” Elijah wavers, because okay, Orli has a point, and he did get some sort of vibe off of DJ-guy, but Elijah knows plenty of people who get switched on sexually by music; hell, he himself -

“Plus,” Orli adds, leaning in to suck Elijah’s earlobe briefly into his mouth, “back at my house, there’s a bed.”

“Yeah?” Elijah asks, and lifts his chin to facilitate Orlando’s explorations with his tongue.

“Mmm,” Orli says. “And a shower. And a tub. And -” God, he’s doing the whispering thing again - “plenty of privacy for me to get you out of those jeans. I want to lick you all over, you know. Wrap my tongue around you until you can’t do anything but make that fucking gorgeous little whimpering noise again-”

“I see your point,” Elijah says, and sweepingly concedes.


End file.
